


Third Time Lucky - part  One

by MyrJuhl



Series: Third Time Lucky [1]
Category: Ravenous (1999)
Genre: Adult Content, Angst, Blood, Cannibalism, Coercion, Drama, Gore, Horror, Kink, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Period Piece, Spoilers, Suspense, Violence, creaturefic, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:19:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrJuhl/pseuds/MyrJuhl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain John Boyd finds out the real reason why Colonel Ives wants him in his little 'Gentleman's Club'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** These events never happened. This fic is for entertainment purposes only, not profit. I, the author, make no claim through this work as to the fictitious characters/ actual lives/ preferences/ activities of the people mentioned herein. 
> 
> This story is partly based on the movie verse - the rest is what I read between the lines and generally thought missing from the spectacular script :D

The American-Mexican War 1847.

Lieutenant John Arran Boyd was a handsome specimen of the male gender. Tall, slender, with broad shoulders and a sharp gaze in his blue eyes. Unfortunately, in spite of being a soldier, he didn’t quite have the stamina when it was most expected of him. This came as a shocking truth to him in exactly a moment like that when his unit was surrounded by Mexican soldiers, who fought tenaciously to keep the US out of their lands. There was recent talk of possible ores of gold to be had in California, and John couldn’t really blame Mexico for its relentless defence of their lands. Texas had gained its independence from Mexico in 1836 but still hadn’t managed to become part of the union due to its slavery policy. The US just kept pushing Mexico for giving up more states to include to its growing need for expansion.

John’s company at San Miguel was assigned to force back Mexican soldiers protecting yet another border they were about to lose. The two armies crossed lines and a merciless battle broke out instantly, cutting down John’s unit in half by the minute. They were outnumbered when the other units were too far away to help. They stood no chance of winning this afternoon. 

In the midst of the combat, Boyd found nothing heroic in war fare. He cursed the reasons why his family ever thought a military career could ever boast a young man’s character, when all it did was having them end up mutilated.

Towards the end, John couldn’t even see a single one of his unit standing. Not even his commanding officers. Everyone still alive was crying out, screaming at their officers for their attention and orders. Scared out of his wits, John had none for them, and knowing he would soon share their destiny had him freeze up when he should have contributed and fought to the last drop of blood. 

Fear made him choose the coward’s way, drop to the ground, and pretend he was dead. Controlling the adrenaline rush in his body was easier when he lay still on the ground and waited. Frightened, and fighting not to make a move. It felt like hours but was in fact only fifteen minutes.

The Mexican soldiers were in high spirits over their easy victory, and some of them went about stabbing the remaining US soldiers who were still whimpering. The young Lieutenant silently thanked his lucky star that they didn’t waste time on him because he lay absolutely motionless. 

Then finally the soldiers carried out the next cause of action and gathered the casualties to stack them all on a wagon. Even as they stripped John of his weapons, none of them had any clue that he was still alive, and handled him just as indifferently as the other corpses. The experience was painful. He banged his head against the ground as well as the edge of the wagon, when he ended up in the bottom half of the human pile. The cuts and bruises that formed on his face only added to the picture he was trying to present; that he too, had been killed.

The wagon arrived at the Mexican camp. Immediately, the soldiers lost interest in their human cargo when there was tequila to be had. That gave John the courage to take a look at his surroundings. Obviously, he would have to get out of the wagon before the soldiers disposed of the bodies. If John had felt scared during the battle, he felt positively sick lying under the weight of dead men, unable to move.

His commanding officer lay directly on top of him. His head was half shot off and massive drops of blood dripped from the open wound and down on John who couldn’t keep his lips gathered in the position he was in. The blood ran into his mouth, and he swallowed it. After a while, the dust, filth, and heat began dulling his mind and made time irrelevant. He barely noticed the flies’ incessant tickling on his bloodied skin when they crawled over his face.

Around the time when the commander’s blood had coagulated, John began to feel invigorated, and the dead weight on top of him didn’t seem a burden any longer.

A quiet came over the camp. The Mexican soldiers relaxed, had dinner and prepared for evening duties. No one paid any mind to the cart of casualties. Not even tending the few of their own comrades who fell in the skirmish. John assessed they’d take care of everyone one way or another come morning. 

The gap between the bars keeping them within the wagon was wide enough for John to push his head through and being in the bottom gave him that advantage. A potent wave of strength came over him when he pressed a shoulder out next. The weight of the men above him adjusted, and he could barely breathe. 

The subtle creak of the joints of the cart’s construction had a few men turn their heads. If they decided to investigate the sounds now, John would be in dire trouble. But he went on. There was literally no way he could turn back now.

Lying still for a while, John pushed the last bit to get out, and in spite of the weight of men atop of him, he finally got free and dropped to the gravelled ground. Immediately, he slipped behind a pile of rubble that supported the wagon. Silently, John prayed that the bodies didn’t move again.

They didn’t.

John took in his surroundings and pinpointed the stronghold’s layout. It was built from sandy white bricks with wide passages for horse wagons to pass through. Gun shots and canons going off were still heard in the distance, but he had no clue if there were any US soldiers left to fight. The soldiers inside the fort were not bothered by this. The five or six men tending the flank of the fortress had their backs turned to John’s position. To the other side, however, were only two sentries guarding and they were busy arguing amongst themselves.

Estimating that now was as good a time as any; John dropped to the ground and crossed the distance crawling on his stomach. Occasionally, he glanced at the guards, but they were having their back to him at all times and never noticed him thanks to the noise.

When he reached a corner wall, he stood up and immediately attacked the closest of the sentries, and with his bare hands snapped the Mexican’s neck and secured his weapon. It all happened so fast or the other guard was too slow. He never got a chance to pick up the riffle leaning against the wall that he had carelessly let out of his sight. 

John imagined that his blood splattered face looked crazed enough to convince the soldier that he would be shot the second he tried to warn his fellow soldiers. The man wisely prioritised his life and led John to his unsuspecting commanders who were just as unprepared for this as the sentry had been. John made all the men step willingly inside their own prison where he locked them behind bars.

At the time, John didn’t think about why it had been so easy. That came later.

*~.:.~*

When John’s unit failed to return to their company, the other unit came to investigate what the outcome of the skirmish had been. Surprised they found John the sole survivor of his unit. But mostly they were surprised by the sight of their enemy behind their own bars.

Major Lindus was first to arrive and asked John the obvious question, “What on earth happened here? Your entire unit was slaughtered and yet you’re still standing, Lieutenant.”

“I’m not sure what happened, but I captured the enemy...” John said, and gestured to the Mexicans who still looked strangely subdued.

Lindus nodded but John knew this wasn’t what he really wanted to hear.

Delivering a plausible explanation as shell-shocked as he unknowingly was in a time when there was no place for weakness in the military was not even a variable. But he was still alive when the rest of his unit was not, and that was strangely unacceptable. So John kept his mouth shut for the rest of the travel back to the fort.

All the way back to San Miguel, John wrecked his brain for something to say to explain his motivations. But he couldn’t come up with a cover story only the truth: that he had been too scared to die to do his job as expected. This could easily cost him his life, but so be it.

A scout had ridden ahead, so when John and the squadron arrived back home, they were passing a fresh unit sent out to deal with the Mexicans and carry back their fallen soldiers, so they could receive a proper burial.

*~.:.~*

Back at the fort, John was received by his superior with less than enthusiasm in spite of his last desperate action to get out safely. Since he was the only one of his company to return alive, there would be a thorough questioning of his actions.

As soon as John had cleaned up, he was summoned by his commanding officers. Taking a deep breath, he entered the office, not particularly ready for his fate to be determined.

“What happened since you were spared?”

“I wasn’t. I froze. I was scared,” John said. He met the men’s direct stare. 

“Scared?” Major Lindus asked.

“Yes. I couldn't move,” John added.

“You froze while the rest of your unit fought and died?”

“Correct. I couldn’t move,” John repeated.

“What did you do then?”

“I played dead.”

He was met by Lindus’ disgusted face. Everybody in the room was, but the most important question was yet to be asked.

“But you made it behind enemy lines?” Lindus was having trouble connecting the deeds together just from knowing John’s actions alone.

“Yes,” John said. “I did, because they put me with the others. I was buried with my commanding officer’s half shot head in my face. His blood running down my throat.”

“So how did you take the command post?” the Major asked.

“Something... something... had changed... When I found the right moment... I slipped out and... caught them,” John tried to explain. He knew how implausible that sounded, but that’s what happened. Perhaps they’d understand the invigoration he felt, while the Mexicans all seemed to fear him. John still didn’t know why they didn’t just turn on him, overpowered him, and taking the risk that only a few would die in the process. But they hadn’t. They all chose to go inside that prison.

“As you know, lieutenants are second in command of infantry and cavalry companies and artillery batteries. Infantry lieutenants assist the company Captain in their positions behind the line of battle by guiding the troops in their movements and firing.”

The General paused before he concluded, “You failed spectacularly executing _your_ duty.” Slauson let his eyes wander across the stern faces of his staff, and then he looked at John who swallowed nervously.

 _Here it comes_ , John thought, preparing to take his sentence like a man.

“We’re going to promote you, Boyd...”

John blinked but didn’t say anything. His blood pressure was sky high and he fought not to pass out from relief.

“...We could shoot you... but as you single-handedly captured the enemy command... it might set a bad precedent.”

The subtle insinuation that the General had preferred the young Lieutenant to choose to die with his unit wasn’t lost on John.

*~.:.~*

“For heroism above and beyond the call of duty... for successfully infiltrating the enemy’s ranks... and securing victory independently with cunning and honour... Captain John Arran Boyd.” Major Lindus delivered the generic speech and congratulated him for his involvement in the Union’s victory. Then General Slauson pinned a medal on his chest and the officers saluted him.

Slauson threw a grand banquet in John’s honour after the ceremony, and there were no protests from any of San Miguel’s personnel. It certainly wasn’t every day events like this broke the monotony of everyday warfare.

Ripe red bison steaks filled everyone’s plate. The aromatic meat practically drizzled in its own bloody juices. Had this been before his questionable deed, John would have been amongst the lip smacking crowd who took pleasure in a hearty feast. Now, John found he couldn’t tolerate the smell and sight of animal meat any longer. His conscience was grading on his nerves and nausea threatening to make him sick. 

He only looked at the food, but didn’t touch it and it caused Slauson and Lindus to take notice. John knew his behaviour must have looked out of place, his emotions showing in every nuance of his facial expressions. He couldn’t give them the satisfaction even if he couldn’t say why he was so repulsed by the smells. So, he made an effort to at least cut into the meat. Memories of his lately encounter with blood came back to him, and he remembered the smells and taste of blood as he lie helplessly on that wagon. 

The grunting noises from the men at the table eating with gusto seemed intensified by their simultaneous masticating. John’s breath became increasingly laboured. The General’s eyes were on him and added to the constrictive feeling. Lastly, he was so wound up that he just couldn't sit at the table anymore. Abruptly, he got out of his chair, and fled for the courtyard exit. The second he was outside, he threw up. 

After the banquet, Slauson had a brief conversation with John where he let him know he was going to station him elsewhere.

“You’re no hero, Boyd. I want you as far from my company as possible. I’m sending you to Fort Spencer, California. Chances of you fucking that up should be naught,” were his parting words. And he kept his promise.

*~.:.~*

At the age of ten, John was sent to military academy to ‘make a real man out of him’. In the years prior, John couldn’t remember a day when his father didn’t remind him of what a disappointment he was. John was the weaker child; his older brother had been the apple of their eye. He died last year. John had never been close to him. There had been a nine year gap between them.

The academy had been tough, and John had cried until he had no tears left. All the discipline ever taught him was that it was pointless and only executed for the sake of it and for the behavioural unification of the children who went there. It also taught him that nobody cared about him, and his father only visited once a year in the six years he went to assure his money was spent worthwhile. 

After graduating from the academy, John was boarding with friends of his father’s who lived close to the University of Alabama, where he pursued a Bachelor degree in Philosophy Science. His goal was to become a teacher, but he never included his father about that ambition or he would surely cut off his tuition. 

Then the Mexican war came, and as soon as John was old enough to enlist, he took the leap. He imagined he’d pick up his studies when the war was over. Only too late, he realised that being invisible was better than subjecting himself to the horrors of war. But it was all he knew how to do. As long as his father was still alive, there was no way he was going to set foot in his childhood home. His mother knew where to find him – if he survived the war.

*~.:.~*

As much as it was embarrassing to be dismissed from Fort San Miguel with a degradation on top of the promotion, John was also relieved to get away from the stares of people who only tolerated his presence. When John arrived on his horse at a mercantile in the outskirts of nowhere in California, he was picked up by an Indian woman who introduced herself as Martha. She was dressed in uniform pants with an open long skirt on top of them, a white loose tucked shirt, and furs over a long military coat, and a broad brimmed leather hat completed her attire.

John had never seen a woman dressed this way, but then he came from a world void of interesting people. Martha had a horse ready for him, and together they arranged his gear on a stretcher pulled by a second horse. Although Martha could have ridden the horse, she seemed to prefer to walk next to the animal. 

Well, neither John nor she was in any hurry to reach their destination.

The frontier was bleak this time of year. Winter was approaching fast and snow already covered the majestic mountains in the horizon. John could see the purpose of the fort being placed as it were. They were in control of the pass through every grade of the perimeter. At the same time, from afar the wooden fort looked all forlorn and Spartan. 

John already imagined how lonely he was going to be here. Martha had barely said a word since she picked him up. Hopefully, she didn’t set the standard of how the social mechanism worked within the staff. Or maybe she just didn’t take any crap from people she had no reason to trust.

John felt she could see his guilt carved on his forehead. He was practically sweating discomfort.

Entering Fort Spencer, John let his eyes roam the dull surroundings and sun bleached wooden structures. Martha pointed out which of the small houses would be John’s lodging. Thereafter she handled him a large fur blanket.

John dropped it on the narrow bed along with the rest of his soldier’s back pack. Testing the mattress, John imagined it wasn’t designed for a good night’s sleep. Soldiers were meant to be alert - not asleep. Then again, the bed at San Miguel hadn’t been much better. You would have to be a general to even dare requesting a comfortable mattress. The last time John had a good night’s sleep was a long time ago. 

The room was square. Two small windows divided each into four window bars. The panes were covered in filth that John would have to clean if he wanted to look out – or someone else to look. Such a small space, but at least he had privacy, so maybe he’d just keep the windows in that condition.

To the left of the bed a chest with peeled light blue paint stood, in the corner to the right a large barrel. The white washed dirty walls were bare, remnant patches of smoke bore witness to a previous fire. The brickwork needed a bit of mending but it could have been worse. John could have been dead.

On one wall a small wooden black crucifix hung, in the opposite direction was the door. When John went and closed it, he found a stained mirror on the back of it. He knew it was for shaving, but all he saw was the emptiness in his own eyes. The blue seemed bottomless, the scars in his soul mocking and taunting him. Wondering if there would ever come a time, when he could put everything behind him and just look forward for a change. 

Turning with a sigh, John went outside to retrieve the rest of his equipment and after that, he went to greet his commanding officer.

*~.:.~*

“Captain John Boyd. War hero, huh?” Colonel Hart asked looking slightly amused at John who had a hard time looking him in the eye. “So, the brass decided to reward you... with a little appointment to the California sun?”

John took that as a rhetorical question and didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to figure out what Hart was really saying and how he could possibly defend himself against it. His hands were wringing self-consciously in front of his coat buckle belt, waiting for when the lecturing would begin.

It didn’t. 

Instead, Hart offered him fresh walnuts from a bag on his desk, “Have a walnut, Boyd. Martha brought them in fresh from San Miguel,” and the next moment he stood to show him a book case stuffed with classics. 

“This is my hobby...reading in the original languages... Well, you know, languages in general. It's, uh... It's tedious, I know... but, then, this place thrives on tedium. That about sums it up. Do you have a hobby, Boyd?"

John didn’t have any – except he’d always enjoyed swimming. So that’s what he told the Colonel.

“Swimming? I hope you don’t mind hard water,” Colonel Hart said. Then he proceeded to introduce him to the fort itself and tell a little about the rest of the staff. 

“So... Fort Spencer. Uh, the Spanish built this place as a mission. We inherited her. Now we’re a way station... for western travellers on their way through the Nevada’s. We don’t get much traffic though these parts in the winter. So we maintain only a skeleton company that consists of Private Toffler – who’s our personal emissary from the Lord. Major Knox, who never met a bottle he didn’t like. Private Reich... He’s our soldier. I’d stay clear of him,” Colonel Hart advised.

John had no problem with that. 

The Colonel continued his humorous account of their personnel, “And Martha you’ve met. Bet you didn’t get a word out of her. And George, her brother. They’re both locals... sort of came with the place. And then there’s Private Cleaves. The _overmedicated_ Private Cleaves. And you and I make eight. Cleaves cook. Knox used to be a veterinarian, so he plays doctor.” The Colonel had another suggestion for John and added, “My advice to you is don’t get sick. I’d tell you don’t eat, but then most of us have to. So, with your promotion... you’d be number three in command.”

 _To a bunch of lunatics,_ was what immediately ran through John’s head, but he said nothing and stopped fiddling his hands. It all made sense now. That’s why Slauson had stationed him here. These were the rejects of the U.S. Army... and John was one of them.

*~.:.~*

John’s first meal at Fort Spencer wasn’t so bad. He got to put faces on the colourful people the Colonel had mentioned.

Sitting at the end of the table as the patriarch of their flock, the Colonel got everyone’s attention knocking his cutlery together.

“Toffler’s prayer,” Hart said, and the young man looked thrilled at having to perform this task.

Folding his hands he said, “O heavenly Father, bless this our use, and...”

To John’s surprise people interrupted with amen’s and started to dig into their meal paying no mind that Toffler was far from finished. It was rude, of course, but John could tell it didn’t ruffle Toffler’s feathers. Politely, he waited until the little man’s prayer was over before he looked at his meal. The bits of meat present on his plate, John moved to the side. He still hadn’t regained his taste for it.

True to the word, Cleaves was not a good cook. His obvious enjoyment of ‘local plants’ came out in fits of giggles and laughter. His constant intoxication was likely the cause to his poor culinary skills.

The Colonel looked at his staff and asked conversationally, “Did anyone do anything today?” Leaning towards John on his right side, Hart said, “We have a great sense of camaraderie... here at Fort Spencer.”

John smiled but said nothing. It was a nice sentiment that matched his own observation. The people assembled at the table did seem like any dysfunctional family only these members actually liked each other. Something, John had never experienced.

“You gonna eat that?” Reich asked and blinked at John.

John looked into the soldier’s aquamarine blue eyes and saw an underlining interest he didn’t quite know how to interpret. Reich didn't look like he had anything against John. Maybe he was just testing John’s backbone. John decided he couldn’t afford to rub these people the wrong way. Especially not Reich. The Colonel had advised him to stay clear.

“No. You can have it,” John said and let Reich take the lumps of meat.

“Thanks,” Reich said and John gasped in surprise when a hand found its way across his thigh and directly down between his legs.

John went completely rigid and looked straight ahead at the Major sitting across from him. Reich’s hand was surprisingly efficient as he wormed his way inside John’s pants. Taking a firm but gentle hold of John’s wool clothed cock, he let him know that even though he was gentle now, he could also do some damage.

John didn’t even dare to breathe and, to his horror, he got an erection. Reich chuckled quietly next to him as he removed his hand. Slowly, John exhaled and just stared at his plate for a while until Hart asked,

“Are you not hungry, Captain?”

“Yes. Just tired is all,” John said.

“Eat. You’re gonna need your strength,” Reich said.

Of course, John knew what he really meant, and secretly it thrilled him that someone took that aggressively interest in his person. John had tried first hand when soldiers sometimes lay with another soldier to slake their natural desires when they were far from home. Nobody talked about it; but if you overheard someone else’s private tryst, you pretended it never happened the next time you saw them. John never had penetrated sex, but his hands and mouth had been in contact with almost every place on another male’s anatomy. Some encounters had been more authentic than others, but it made soldier life easier. After their station was served the men went home to their wives and John never saw them again.

This however, was clearly not a desperate encounter to take off the pressure. Reich had singled out John. 

John stuck his fork into the bland food and began eating automatically till his plate was empty.

*~.:.~*

After lunch, John went for a walk. The snow had set in and suddenly everything looked so pretty. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to be out here after all – his personal demons aside.

When he got back, Martha and Cleaves were getting ready to head out to the nearest mercantile station to get some provision before the pass closed due to the snow. Meat, beans, oil, coffee, bacon, flour, and salt. 

“I want you back in three days,” Hart said. “No loco weed... no peyote... no women.”

“No women,” Martha repeated. She would keep her keen eye on Cleaves and make sure he stayed out of trouble.

Everyone was outside to wish them farewell. So little happened that that in itself was an event no one wanted to miss.

Reich was amused at the theatrical antics Cleaves got away with, and he asked John, “Wish you were along for the ride?”

“Not particularly,” John replied.

After watching Reich chop an armful of wood, John went back inside.

*~.:.~*

That evening, John sat in his quarters and took out the medal he’d been given. The memory from Mexico stayed with him at all times. The vivid images came and went whether he wanted them to or not. The medal kept him grounded when the ambivalence of not being executed for treason became overwhelming.

Colonel Hart paid him a visit during and when he saw it in John’s hands, he couldn’t help asking, “What did you get the medal for?”

“Cowardice,” was John’s court answer. 

Hart didn’t pry further and went on with the reason for his visit, “Knox has got some excellent bourbon. It’s really fine stuff. And he just passed out about...” Hart looked at his watch, “...a minute ago. So, uh... wondering if you’d like to...”

Definitely interested John asked, “He won’t mind?”

“Mmm... probably,” the Colonel said. His wicked sense of humour appealed very much to John’s own gloomy mood. He wouldn’t mind spending some time with the man. Together they went to his office and saluted once their glasses were filled.

“To escape,” Hart said, “in one form or another.” Then they were interrupted by Toffler playing the organ. God awful noises came out of the instrument, and Hart went into the parlour to stop him.

“Toffler! Toffler!!”

“Uh-huh?” the young man said.

“What are you doing?”

Intrigued there was interest concerning his project, Toffler came closer and smiled. “Oh, um, it’s a religious hymn. I’m writing a religious hymn,” he confessed proudly.

“Ah...” Hart replied, not exactly impressed. “Well, could you find some inspiration somewhere else?” Then he thrust a bucket towards the private and added, “And could you get us some ice?”

Toffler looked miffed but did as he was commanded.

Hart came back and closed the door behind him. “Funny thing. We escape the world... we come here... and then we turn right around and try to escape this place. Frightening thing about escape, though. Chances are you might end up someplace worse.” He poured more bourbon into John’s glass. 

Raising his glass to drink, John saw something in the window and startled he gasped and took a step back. A man stood looking in from outside. In haste, everybody went outside to investigate the intruder’s whereabouts carrying guns and torches to better see in the night.

“Reich! Go that way,” Hart said and pointed to the left. Reich didn’t even have a shirt on and just put on a jacket.

“Colonel...” John said, and drew him, George, and Toffler along in the other direction where he’d had seen the man through the window. When they came around the main building, they saw someone lying on the ground.

“Who are you?” Hart asked, but quickly he realised that helping the man was the first priority over an interrogation. “Reich!” Hart called out for the Private to come join them. “He’s alive! Only just.”

“Jesus Christ,” John said. The man was barely breathing.

Hart called out, “Let's get him inside!” Together the soldiers carried the man inside and prepared to get him out of hypothermia.

“Uh, we need hot water, Toffler,” Hart said, “Lots and lots of hot water. And Reich, see if you can rouse Knox. Let's get these rags off and see if we can get his blood moving.”

Quickly, they divested the man of his boots and clothes. Soon, they had him in a tub and began filling it with water to speed up his temperature.

“Toffler, more water!” Hart commanded.

A chain with a crucifix was wrapped around the man's wrist. Even in his unconscious state, he held that cross tightly in his hand.

The confused blank look in the stranger’s brown eyes wasn’t changing right away, even when his limbs were rubbed brusquely to get the heat circulating in his cold body. But once it did, they took him out of the tub and arranged him on a bed with furs to maintain the body heat he’d gained so far.

Checking the man over, Hart concluded, “I think he'll live. He's warm. Frostbite didn't seem to do much damage. I guess the only thing we can do is let him rest. And, uh... pray.” Hart smiled at Toffler. “Toffler, your duty. Good work.” That was a compliment for everybody.

*~.:.~*


	2. Chapter 2

*~.:.~*

After the exhilarating evening, John went straight to bed. He longed for the rest he was going to have, and for the morning that wouldn’t include exhausting military procedures he really could do without. 

Making sure the wood burner was stocked with firewood, John took off all his clothes. Quickly, he got under the covers and the soft fur provided by Martha. The mattress wasn’t as bad as he initially thought it was, and John got comfortable and closed his eyes.

The sounds of the fort settling for night-time were soothing. John was almost asleep when his door creaked open.

“Who is it?” he asked and sat up. 

Reich got in and closed the door. Then he stripped, too, and crawled into John’s narrow bed.

“There’s barely room for me,” was the first thing John said.

“Then I’ll just have to lie on top of you,” Reich said, and pushed John down on his back.

“What do you want?” John asked even though he knew the answer.

“You, my pretty little Captain,” Reich said and kissed him on the mouth. A hand slipped down John’s side. His skin erupted in goose bumps and his nipples became hard little buds, inviting Reich to be touched even if John hadn’t asked.

“Turn around and get on your hands and knees, Boyd,” Reich said. When John didn’t react, he just manhandled him until the Private had John the way he wanted him.

John’s breath laboured. A plume of cool exhale came out of his mouth with each desperately aroused pant he took.

“You want this, Captain?” Reich asked. John gasped when something cold and greasy touched his entrance.

“Want what?” he asked nevertheless. If Reich went through with this, it would be John's first time, but he didn't tell him that.

“Submitting to me like a bitch in heat.”

“I’m not in heat,” John said, and then he bit down a moan when Reich put a blunt finger inside him. 

“Bitch,” Reich whispered in his ear. He draped his muscular body over John’s and pushed him down to rest on his underarms, presenting an even more submissive position. Another finger entered, and John hissed.

“Too soon...”

Reich chuckled in his ear. “You’ll need my fingers to take what I have for you afterwards.”

“Yeah, all right,” John whispered and his hips rocked back on the fingers who had found something interesting to play with inside of him. It felt good, and John had to bite his lower lip to keep down the urge to moan loud enough to wake up the others.

A third finger joined the other two and John gasped.

“Awww... it hurts, Reich. Slow down...”

“Can’t wait. You’re so warm and smooth. You’re so pretty. Did you know that? How pretty you are? Could tell you were built like a gazelle in that jittery way you are.” Reich stuck his nose into John’s hair, “Your smell is intoxicating,”

“You’re losing it, Reich,” John moaned softly.

Reich removed his fingers and John looked back.

“What are you... ?”

“Just a second.”

“All right,” John replied. A moment later, he gasped out and gritted his teeth hard. “Uh... uh... Christ, slow down, Reich.”

Reich didn't move. He just sat behind him and waited until he could push in some more.

John breathed slowly and, when the sting had lessened enough, he nodded. “More... please more,” he begged the blond man.

Reich pushed in and then he was all the way there. 

"You enjoy this?”

“I do...” John admitted.

“Me fucking you on your hands and knees?” Reich continued and grabbed John’s narrow hips with calloused hands. Setting a constant pace, he snapped his pelvis repeatedly against John’s buttocks. 

"Yes, fuck me," John had responded seconds later. His prostate was hit dead on most of the time and he was in ecstasy.

When Reich got bored of the bitch game he had John manoeuvred on his back. Entering the tight virgin hole once more, he smirked when John’s lips parted for a kiss. Once they connected, John worked Reich's tongue like the blowjobs he’d secretly enjoyed giving to other soldiers.

Reich made his body come alive; set his nerve endings on fire. He should be ashamed of wanting a man to take him, but if he had to be brutally honest... he got off on how small Reich made him feel. And he rejoiced in getting the opportunity to finally experiencing this without worrying about prying eyes and ears. 

Pushing John’s legs back by the knees, Reich had an appreciative look at their connecting point. “Good little whore soldier you are,” he said, the Private’s eyes were almost glassy from arousal as he fucked into John with even economic thrusts. The demeaning talk only turned on John further. Grabbing his cock, John jacked off keeping a sizzling eye contact with Reich, as they strived to reach their peak.

Afterwards, Reich left John as quietly as he’d arrived. John slept like a baby that night.

*~.:.~*

The next day John sat up in his bed. Stretching, he felt as rested as he’d hoped he would be. With a little smile, he recalled Reich’s nocturnal visit and he could still smell sex on his body when he breathed in deeply. 

The camp was waking up and John got ready. Everyone – sans Major Knox - was gathered at the table for breakfast, and John was secretly amused that Reich was deliberately not looking when John cast him a glance. At the same time, he could feel the Private’s eyes on him when John wasn’t looking.

After breakfast, he walked outside to join the Colonel. Since there was no immediate crisis at hand, there were always manual things to do or repair around the place. Work assignments were delegated, tactics discussed.

“... Each one of these is about one-point-five miles. Takes about three days actually, because...” Hart was in the process of explaining, when Toffler came running towards them urgently wringing his small hands. Humming, Toffler announced that their guest had gained his conscience. What an interesting morning this was going to be. Even John was curious what had brought the man across their part of the state.

The Major was the only one not present when they all came to visit their guest. He was still passed out from last night’s drinking. Toffler did try and rouse him to show up... after all, the man was their functioning doctor, but the Private had no luck.

“Where, uh... Where am I?” the man asked cradling a cup of coffee in his hands. He sat up half reclining on his elbow, curly long hair cascading over his shoulder. Looking around curiously, his brown eyes met those of everyone else’s. When they met John’s, he felt a strange electric connection with the man, perhaps a kindle of compassion. The man surely had been through an ordeal.

Colonel Hart responded, “Fort Spencer, California. Western Sierra Nevadas.”

The man’s voice broke and he apologised immediately for behaving so emotionally. “Excuse me. I'm sorry. My name is Colqhoun. F.W. Colqhoun, servant of God.”

Well, they all had that figured out, and knowing that the man was religious immediately relaxed everyone. Peaceful people were very much welcome amongst their midst. They all let him have his moment. He deserved that. John looked way, but seconds later he looked at him again as if he couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Colqhoun?”

“Not bad, considering. Probably look like death.”

“Not bad... considering. How long were you out there?” 

“Three months.”

John quietly enjoyed the dignified way the Colonel asked the man. The waves of pleasantness they all received from Colqhoun wrapped him in a cocoon of pure sympathy.

“Without food?”

“Yes,” Colqhoun whispered in a voice full of sorrow and distress. He slipped out of the bed and stood indecisively, naked and exposed.

The men reacted promptly. Of course they would have to get him some clothes.

“Toffler, help him,” Colonel Hart asked.

“Good Lord. Good Lord,” Colqhoun chanted, “You should have seen me three months ago. I was thirty pounds heavier.”

John came closer and sat on the edge of the huge central fireplace that took up most of the space in the building. Everyone was looking at Colqhoun, already sensing there was an extraordinary story to be had.

“I'm sorry, but you did say no food for three months?” Hart asked.

“I said... I said no food. I didn't say there was nothing to eat. Do you understand? Do you understand? I suppose I owe you gentlemen a story.”

“Only if you feel up to it,” Hart assured him.

“Yes...” Colqhoun said. Now dressed, he sat down and began his story.

“We left in April. Six of us in all. Mr. MacCready and his wife from Ireland. Mr. Janus from Virginia, I believe... with his servant, Jones. Myself... I'm from Scotland. And our guide... a military man, coincidentally. Colonel Ives... ?” he asked into the room.

John had never heard of him, and Hart seemed to be of the same opinion when he said, “I don't think I know him.”

“The better for you,” Colqhoun said almost passionately, “A detestable man... and a most disastrous guide. He professed to know... a new, shorter route through the Nevadas. Quite a route that was. Longer than the known one... and impossible to travel. We worked... very, very hard. By the time of the first snowfall... we were still a hundred miles from this place. That was November. Proceeding in the snow was futile. We took shelter in a cave. We decided to wait until the storm had passed. But the storm did not pass. The trail soon became impassable... and we had run out of food. We ate the oxen... all the horses... even my own dog. And that lasted us about a month. After that, we turned to our belts... shoes... any roots we could dig up... but you know there's no real nourishment in those. “

Everyone was silent as they took in Colqhoun’s tragic story. Disturbing images couldn’t be helped from forming in their minds, because the unthinkable was just at the tip of their imagination. 

“... We remained famished. The day that Jones died... I was out collecting wood. He had expired from malnourishment. And when I returned... the others were cooking his legs for dinner. Would I have stopped it had I been there? I don't know. But I must say... when I stepped inside that cave... the smell of meat cooking... I thanked the Lord. I thanked the Lord.” Colqhoun’s eyes briefly met John’s. The man looked at him, and John had the oddest feeling that he could tell that John had tasted human blood as well. Blood that was not his one.

Colqhoun’s eyes became sad when he returned to his story, “And then things got out of hand. I ate sparingly. Others did not. The meat did not last us a week... and we were soon hungry again. Only this time, our hunger was different. More... severe... savage. And Colonel Ives, particularly, could not be satisfied. Janus was the first to be killed. Then Mr. MacCready. That left Colonel Ives... MacCready's wife, and I alone... and I knew in that company that my days were numbered. I'm ashamed to say that I acted in a most cowardly manner.”

John looked away. He knew all about turning to cowardice for survival.

“It would have been nobler, I know... to have stayed and protected Mrs. MacCready from Ives, but... I was weak. I fled. It was nothing less than pure providence that I arrived here.”

“Mrs. MacCready... is she still there?” Hart asked, his voice laden with revenge for the poor defenceless woman.

“And Colonel Ives, as far as I know.” 

“Let's pack up,” Hart decided.

Confusion erupted immediately amongst the men and Hart explained his desire to go, “We've got to go up there. We've got to go. It's our job.” The man had made his decision and with John’s help delegated guns from the arsenal. The distance to the cave was estimated a three or four days' march from the fort. They would be heading further down the mountain area and closer to sea level.

As they were about to embark, George came into the main building to meet them.

“What is it, George?” the Colonel asked. “What?” The native man carried a piece of skin in his hands, and quickly he spread it on the floor for John and Hart to see.

“Wendigo,” George said and pointed to the images there.

“Wendigo”? Hart asked.

George repeated, “Wendigo." Then he told about the myth in his native tongue and the Colonel translated for John.

“It's an old Indian myth from the north. A man eats another's flesh. It's usually an enemy. And he, um, takes... no, steals... his strength, essence, his spirit. And his hunger becomes craven... insatiable. And the more he eats, the more he wants to. The more he eats, the stronger he becomes... George, people don't still do that, do they?”

“White man eats the body of Jesus Christ every Sunday,” was George’s logic sardonic answer. Then he showed them the other side of the skin. It was a depiction of Christ hanging on his cross looking as sorry as ever for ending up there.

Reich rang the bell in the courtyard, and everyone gathered to begin the excursion to finding the cave.

*~.:.~*

At last Major Knox was awake and came rushing out to see what the commotion was about. 

Hart didn’t have time to explain what was going on. “Major Knox, we're leaving now. You're going to be in charge until I return. Here's the key to the arsenal. Martha and Cleaves will be back in a few days.” The man ran past the Colonel and directly to the latrine where he threw up.

“Too much bourbon in his bourbon,” Hart said wistfully.

“Will he be all right?” John asked.

“Yeah, he'll be fine. He’s used to it.” Then the Colonel saw that Mr. Colqhoun was there, too, putting on his coat.

“Mr. Colqhoun... uh... getting dressed?”

“I'm coming with you. I must come with you. You don't stand a chance of finding her without me.”

“Well, you're right. You're a good man. Thank you.”

As soon as everyone was packed up, they were finally ready to go. John had put on his back pack with provision. The weather was brisk and cold, so everyone wore furs wrapped around their shins for protection and to prevent the snow from getting into their boots.

On their first night, everyone shared the same big tent. Reich sent John a few meaningful looks, but John decided to ignore him. He was much more interested in figuring out who Colqhoun was and why he felt connected to him. When he and Colonel Hart shared a pipe of marijuana, the world didn’t seem so important for a while, and John felt incredibly relaxed. Toffler was still working on his hymn and Colqhoun was resting. When he helped Toffler with a particular difficult rhyme, Colqhoun gained a friend for life. Reich volunteered in taking the first watch, and John barely noticed when he stepped outside.

The next day was a fantastic vision with all that snow surrounding them as far as the eye could see. During a bourbon break later, John couldn’t help approaching Colqhoun with questions of his own; to compare notes so to speak without revealing too much of his own past.

“Mr. Colqhoun?” John said and went to join the preacher. “You... you said that when you ate the man... Do... do you mind if I ask? You said that afterwards your hunger was different... that you felt wanton.”

“Yes.”

“Did you feel at all physically changed? Stronger?”

“I seem to remember something like that. A certain... virility. Why do you ask?”

John couldn’t quite answer that. But the virility, the sex drive... yes, he’d noticed that the frequency of sexual thought and desires was back as uncontrollably like it had been through puberty. He was just better at controlling the urge... until a few nights ago when Reich came to visit him. 

Toffler saved him when he came up from a cliff where he’d been searching who knows what and shouted in triumph, “Hey! Look, look, look! Look! Hey! It's a bone! It's a bone.” The poor man then lost his balance in his excitement, and fell down several feet on hard rock and was hurt.

Reich set after him and was there first.

“He's all right!” Reich called back to the others and helped him getting back safely. Well, as it were, Toffler was not doing fine at all and suffered an open wound on his lower abdomen. In the tent, he was taken care of by the others, especially Reich. John had a feeling their little devout Private was not a virgin any more. Perhaps Reich preferred virgins.

“I would very much appreciate some of that bourbon now,” Toffler asked timidly. When no one reacted the poor suffering man cried out, “Bourbon NOW!” 

“Boyd? Would you administer some of this to Toffler, thank you?” Hart asked John. John obliged and went inside to assist the preacher. John handed the flask to him and was suddenly up close to Toffler’s serious injury. He had to look away. The smell of blood was very powerful in his nostrils and tickled his gag reflex.

Reich who was at Toffler’s side at all times, noticed John’s discomfort and taunted him, “War hero, afraid of the sight of blood?”

John didn’t answer that and left.

During the night, Toffler sudden awoke everyone with terrified screams. John was the first to try and calm him down while someone else lit the lamp.

“Are you all right? You all right?”

“He was licking me!” was all that Toffler could cry out. 

“What?” John asked quietly to make sure he understood what Toffler said.

“He was... he was licking me,” Toffler whispered in disbelief, his eyes directed at Calqhoun.

“No...” Colqhoun denied although everyone could see the blood trails on his lips.

“He was licking me!” Toffler repeated with a scream.

Reich came in from his watch and with a raised knife he attacked Colqhoun.

“Reich!!” Hart intervened.

"Yes! Yes!” the little preacher goaded the big soldier.

Hart managed to cut through authoritative and give a direct order, “Reich! Re-bandage Toffler's wounds.” Then he looked sternly at Colqhoun.

“Mr. Colqhoun?”

“Yes?”

“You come outside.”

“Outside! You sleep outside!” Toffler ranted, feeling betrayed by the man he thought was a friend.

“Boyd, you, too,” Hart said.

“Sick man outside!” was Toffler’s parting salute.

George joined them, and the three of them looked expectantly at the man.

“Colonel Hart, I can explain!” Colqhoun looked sincere as he wrung his hands in bewilderment, but John was less convinced now.

“Explain!” Hart demanded.

“Um... It's not what you think. I... I was having a nightmare. I was having a nightmare. That young man screamed, I awoke, I was on top of him... my lips were on his wound. Oh, Jesus Christ, I'm sorry. Please, restrain me. Restrain me, Colonel Hart. I can't be trusted. Please. I insist. I insist.”

“Mr. Colqhoun...”

“Wendigo,” George warned, agreeing that Mr. Colqhoun indeed should be restrained. And so he was.

Reich had fun holding the rope that held Colqhoun in check, as they proceeded their trip toward the cave. Toffler was in front of them, supporting himself on temporary produced crotches from two riffles. Every other moment he sent anxious glances over his shoulder, to make sure Colqhoun was still safely in Reich’s custody.

Their journey had finally taken them so far down the mountain they had reached a Ponderosa pine dominated area by a river where the snow hadn’t been able to fully settle yet. Colqhoun became agitated when he clearly recognised the location. Everyone’s attention fell on an insignificant tunnel shaped hole in the cliff few feet away. Small yes, but large enough for people to enter.

“I take it that's the cave.”

Once they established that it had to be it, they all proceeded to investigate further. All the while, Colqhoun got more a distressed following Reich as he was pulled along by the rope.

Pure terror marked the man’s face as he babbled his pleas. This Colonel Ives was clearly a fearsome character and everyone was on highest alert.

“Mrs. MacCready!” Hart called out. His voice echoed back from the walls of the cave.

“Please, please! They're going to kill me!” Colqhoun cried.

“Shut up!” Reich shouted, tired of listening to the distracting cacophony coming from his prisoner. 

“Colonel Ives!” Hart called out. When there was no answer, he executed another strategy. “Reich, break out the lantern. George, Toffler, stand guard where you are.” Helping John taking off his gear, Hart told him, “Here. You're going to have to go in with Reich. I'm sorry, but I need an officer in there.”

John handed Hart his snow goggles and came up to the cave’s mound.

Reich had the lamp lit and said, “Just stay the hell out of my way, all right?” John had no problem with that.

The cave was deeper inside than it looked from the outside. John wasn’t comfortable with how far down they went. But finally they went so far they actually saw a bit of evidence. They found remnants of a camp. People had resided here. 

“Well, well. Blood,” Reich detected. Moving further away, they found a round hole in the ground with a sturdy rope attached to the wall. Reich stuck his pistol in his belt.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

“Oh, I'm sorry. After you, Captain,” Reich said and chuckled. “Will you miss me down there?”

John rolled his eyes. “Not really appropriate considering...”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”

“Oh, please...” John scoffed, “I’m sure Toffler doesn’t like to share.”

Reich tutted, grabbed the rope, and lowered himself down the hole.

John heard the Colonel shouting for them, and he urged Reich to be done with his investigation and come back up. 

“Reich? The Colonel's calling us. Reich!”

“Jesus!” Reich cried out. “How many did he say was in the party?” 

“Six,” John replied. “Why?”

Moments ticked by when suddenly Reich shouted, “It's a trap!” Then he hurried up the rope assisted by John.

“Boyd! He killed everyone. I counted six corpses hanging upside down and stripped to the bones down there. Colqhoun’s the one who killed and ate all of his companions. And we are next on his menu!” 

“Jesus Christ,” John gasped.

As fast as they could, John and Reich ran through the cave to get to the others in time.

“Colonel Hart! Kill him!” their shouts rung from the cave walls, as they tried to warn their friends.

However, the sight that met the two soldiers when they came up from the underground was their Colonel lying on the ground dying; a tomahawk embedded in his back. Further away, George was lying on his back; his dead eyes staring back at them. 

“George! Colonel Hart! Col... Oh, Jesus Christ. Oh, God,” John stuttered and sank down next to his commanding officer already saddened that the good hearted Colonel’s end had come like this. He was more wounded than first expected. A long deep wound up the Colonel’s belly became evident when John had a better look.

Reich turned around himself. “Toffler. Where's Toffler?” Colqhoun and Toffler were nowhere to be seen at first, but Toffler’s cries alerted them of his position close by the river. 

The two soldiers went after them. There was nothing they could to for Hart and George anyway.

“There he is. Let's go, come on. Go. Get him.”

“Boyd! Reich!” Toffler cried for help as Colqhoun was only steps behind him.

Their search took them up the mountain again as they went by the sounds of broken twigs from Toffler and Colqhoun. They were on a rescuing mission, determined that they were going to get the bastardly Scot to whom this apparently was a game.

How wrong they’d been, how naïve, but in hindsight how could they have known? John was afraid of his own conscience, as he followed Reich through the wood, because deep down inside, he _should_ have known. There had been signs that should have set off a bellowing warning bell. However, how viciously calculating one could become from tasting human flesh not even John could have foreseen.

The wild cries from either Toffler or Colqhoun began to come from different directions, confusion the two soldiers. Identifying where their unfortunate friend was became increasingly difficult. The sounds had stopped and cautiously they moved through the terrain until they happened upon Colqhoun who squatted fifty feet away. John and Reich stopped, but Colqhoun felt their presence and got up. He was alone. They lost sight of him just as soon as they found him. 

The rock littered mossy ground prevented them an efficient pace. Not once, did they think that _they_ were in danger from Colqhoun, and the common goal to find the defenceless Private was the fuel that kept them pushing their objective. Sadly a few minutes later, they found the little man on his back. Toffler’s belly was split open with the organs spilling out on the ground.

“Uuugh!” John burst out in horror at the sight. They had been too late right from the start: with the Colonel, with George, and now poor, poor Toffler. The smell of blood was overwhelming. John could barely contain the nauseous feeling that welled up inside of him. Hatred, desire, aggression, and a nagging gritty hunger.

John had to take several deep breaths just to be able to handle the visual overload alone. Then he turned to see Reich’s quiet demeanour, and somewhere in the middle of his own struggle, he realised that Reich might not have been sleeping with Toffler at all. Reich considered himself his protector, his brother... and John was sincerely sorry for his personal loss. 

Reich looked up. His sky-blue eyes determined. “You loaded?”

“Of course.” John was so ready for this.

“Let's go kill that bastard.”

*~.:.~*


	3. Chapter 3

*~.:.~*

They were even higher up now, which made the area smaller and easier to scout for their mark. At the top of a cliff, they saw Colqhoun standing in the distance. He was an easy target and Reich aimed at him. He missed, and moments later, the man was nowhere to be seen. John couldn’t believe the Scot could move that fast. It worried him greatly.

Nearing the edge of the cliff, Reich wanted to make sure that they couldn’t see Colqhoun could be because he had actually fall off the cliff. Looking down, it was hard to determine.

Filled with fatigue, John just wanted to take care of their dead friends. “Reich, I'm going to go back.”

Reich was not having it, though and even though John technically was the Private’s commanding officer with Hart gone, Reich was clearly in charge now.

The soldier went and grabbed John by the throat ordering him, “Find him!”

An eerie mood came over the platform of the cliff. John felt exposed and imagined an attack coming any second. Adrenaline and fear thrummed in his pulse and were not instrumental to being rational when all instincts told him to flee and take cover. Reich turned to go higher up when a second later Colqhoun appeared and threw a knife in his chest. 

Shocked, John witnessed this. Reich’s hand was cradling his gun. Automatically, his fingers pressed the trigger and fired a shot that went nowhere. Walking backwards in shock, he dropped from the rocks, tumbled until he fell over the cliff, and down into nothingness through the trees.

When Colqhoun charged John, he registered the motion, pointed his rifle at him, and fired a shot that hit the cannibal in the left shoulder. Colqhoun fell on his back and didn't move. Sighing, John and ran to the edge hoping he could get a glimpse of Reich through the wilderness of tree tops. “Jesus Christ,” he moaned. From where he stood, the angle and depth looked fatal. How could anyone survive a fall like that? 

Then he heard the moans.

Colqhoun was making wounded sounds and John turned slowly. With growing horror, he realised that Colqhoun wasn’t dead – yet. The cannibal lifted his hand to his chest and moments later, he sat up with a grotesque smile on his lips.

“Come here,” Colqhoun lured and the tone of his voice was calling to John. John clearly saw Toffler’s blood smudging his mouth. No matter what macabre plans Colqhoun had for John, he was not going to listen to him. 

“Get away from me!” John shouted; a natural instinct to escape still very much present. Colqhoun increased his proximity letting out animalistic snarling sounds that kept pushing John further toward the edge. John didn’t have any other weapons. He would never get the time to reload his riffle. He was alone with a creature so dangerous, he would rather die like Reich than ending up this man's grotesque dinner. And so he followed Reich. 

Breaking through branches on his way to the ground was painful, but it didn't kill him. The impact when he reached the ground didn't either; tumbling uncontrollably only escalated his downward travel. Only when he bumped into Reich’s body, did he stop rolling. Finally, but that only lasted a few moments when his collision with Reich caused the other soldier to roll as well and send John into another spin down the hill. John ended in a big root crater in the ground. Seconds later, Reich crashed through the disarray of loose branches a top of the hole. Reich was still alive and aggressively, he reached out to strangle John with his bare hands.

“It’s me, Reich!” John cried out unprepared for the attack. But Reich’s strength ended abruptly. The knife embedded in his chest made him drown in his own blood. In that moment, the branches couldn’t sustain his weight anymore and he fell on top of John before landing next to him. The impact broke John’s shin bone.

John screamed in pain but had to bite his tongue to keep the noise in check in case Colqhoun could pinpoint his hiding place. Reich died, and John was all alone with his fear and excruciating pain both from the fall and the fracture. After a while, Colqhoun came down the hill and was clearly sniffing around searching for John and Reich. 

_And another meal_ , John thought terrified. 

Colqhoun didn't find them that day and John didn’t hear any other person pass. He was caught and couldn’t move without violent stabs of pain shooting through his leg. He had to align the bone somehow or he wouldn’t be able to move at all. 

During the night in the moonlight, John made an attempt. Biting down on a small branch, he managed to fix the broken bone and finally the worst of his sufferings was addressed. The pain continued but at least it was now bearable. Chances were that his wound would become infected, but as his situation was at the moment there was little he could do about it.

Winter set in in this area during the few days John was trapped as a heavy snow fall spread its decorative cover over the landscape.

John felt the temperature drop immediately, but thanks to his uniform so far he was fine. The hunger was worse. He hadn’t eaten in two days, and survived on the few twigs and roots he could reach from his position in the cave. After a while, John's body couldn’t keep warm enough and he turned to Reich’s corpse wanting to take some of his garments to help him stay warm.

“You cold, Reich? Mind if I take your coat?” he asked his dead friend. “I’m freezing.”

When he wasn’t sleeping, John had hallucinating conversations with his late commanding officer from the Mexican war.

“What do you think, Major? Should we stay here? Or t-take the hill? I need you to tell me what to do. I need... I need you to tell me what to do. Tell me what to do.” There was only Reich next to him, and he had no answers for him. John covered his face with a sprig of spruce. Eventually, Reich’s glassy dead eyes had become disturbing.

John was gradually getting delirious from the malnourishment. The hunger he was experiencing was confusing at first. The images of the Wendigos George had shown him came to mind in feverish nightmares. Cannibalism. There came a point, when John simply had to eat something or die.   
Turning to Reich, he pulled out the hunting knife that had been embedded in the big guy’s chest for so many days now. Gasping, John’s expectation was laced with abhor at his own excitement. He apologised beforehand, “Oh, God damn you, you’re dead. You’re safe now. You’re safe now,” he gritted through his teeth. With adrenaline shaking hands, he stuck the knife into Reich’s leg and cut off some meat. 

When he had the first bite, a feeling of virility filled his body. Slowly chewing the meat, he savoured the taste. It didn’t matter that poor Reich’s body had seen better days. John was so hungry he would have eaten the maggots, too, if that’s how funky Reich had become. John had his full and realised his leg got better the more meat he consumed. Then it struck him that he liked it too much. Disgusted with himself, he found that it was time to leave the hole. His leg was still in a bad shape, but he had to get back to civilization. Staying in the hole messed with his sanity. 

Limping in unbearable pain the rest of the way down the hill and through the icy plain, John struggled to reach Fort Spencer. The snow came down unmercifully, but eventually he reached his goal. When he came to the courtyard, he stood still and could hardly believe he was finally home. 

Cleaves came out and disbelieving he asked, “Boyd?”

John felt mute. He’d used the last of his resources and just stared at the man.

“Martha! Knox! It’s Boyd!” Cleaves cried out.

Everything went fast after that. He was put in bed immediately, and his broken leg was tended to by the Major. John slept in what felt like days. His dreams were filled with Colqhoun’s insane laughter and caused him to fall out of his bed in fevered nightmares. Most of what he’d experienced did feel like a bad dream. The Major told him he’d been gone more than three weeks. 

As soon as Martha and Cleaves came back from their trade excursion at the mercantile, they only found Major Knox not having a clue where everybody had gone to. In alarm, Martha had immediately gone to Fort San Miguel. General Slauson and Major Lindus came back with her along with her request for reinforcement.

They all listened to John’s stories of a cannibalistic visitor which didn’t sit well with any of them. 

John’s nightmares made him go to George’s tipi to investigate the skin with the image of the Wendigo. He could hear her elegy from the tipi next to George’s. He couldn’t be sorrier for her loss. Then Martha showed up out of nowhere and took the skin from him. John pleaded for her understanding, “Martha, I need to talk to you. I need to... Wendigo. I need to know how to stop it. I need you to help me. I'm sorry about your brother... but I did... I did not kill him. I did not kill him. Martha, how do you st... How do you stop it?” John knew he wasn’t making much sense, but it was messing with his head and wouldn’t let him rest. Martha had to know about this as well as George had. It was part of their culture.

“You don't!” she finally said, sadness marring her face. 

This was not the answer John had hoped for. 

“You give yourself,” Martha said, “Wendigo eats. Must eat more, more... never enough. He takes! Never, never gives. You stop Wendigo... you give yourself. You must die,” was her depressing advice and the most she’d ever said to him.

*~.:.~*

A week later, John was summoned to make his official statement. Gathered around the late Colonel Hart’s desk in his quarters, General Slauson went straight to the point.

“We’ve just returned from the river bank, Captain Boyd. There's no sign of anyone. No sign of a sign of anyone... not Colonel Hart's rescue party, not the original party who allegedly were killed.”

“You found the cave?” John asked.

“There's nothing in there,” Slauson said, “There's nothing inside. There're no blood tracks... no rope, no bodies.”

Deflated John asked, “You don't believe me, sir?” His face was gaunt, still showing the signs of his time spent alone in the hole in the ground. Maybe that was why the General was talking so kindly and almost fatherly in that patronising way of his.

“We have four missing soldiers, Captain, and no bodies. We need a supportable explanation.”

John almost couldn't take it when he heard that. Colqhoun had removed all the evidence and once more, John stood back looking like a lunatic.

“Now, your story, this... windagee... is the stuff of campfires... And we need facts, not myths.”

“I told you the facts, sir,” John insisted.

“Boyd, if you altered your story now... it wouldn't be perceived as retracting a lie... only... clarifying a muddled recollection. The day that we spoke to you... you were out of your head with fever.”

“I was coherent then, I'm coherent now, sir... and I distinctly remember...”

Immediately, Slauson interrupted, “Perhaps up there in the wilderness... you got separated from your company. That's why I'm giving you this second opportunity. I advise that... you change your story, Boyd.”

John just sighed. He was tired of having to justify himself all the time to Slauson and Lindus, his pet puddle.

The General nodded to Lindus who got up and went for the door. Turning his head, John followed his purposeful stride.

Moments later, there was a knock on the door, and Lindus returned.

“The Colonel's here,” Lindus announced.

“Thank you, Lindus.” The General stood and walked to the middle of the room. John had his back to them. They’d brought in another officer to harass him and disbelieve him. It was the last thing John needed right now, but respectfully he got out of his chair nevertheless to meet the man.

Conversationally, Slauson informed John, “We've brought in an interim commanding officer... until we can appoint a permanent replacement for Colonel Hart. Captain, this is Colonel Ives. Colonel, Captain Boyd.” 

At first John didn’t trust he heard the name right. That would be too much of a coincidence, but when the well known, albeit well groomed Colqhoun suddenly appeared in front of him wearing an officer’s uniform, John was ready to pass out. The man still wore his crucifix around his wrist.

“Captain. How's the leg?” Colqhoun asked looking ever so gently at John who finally collapsed before everyone’s eyes.

“Lindus?” the General asked.

“Let's step outside,” Lindus suggested to Colqhoun and they left the office.

“Now, _what_ is the matter with you, Captain Boyd?” Slauson asked annoyed and looked at John who cowered on the floor knowing he was making another scene of himself.

“It's him, sir.”

“It's who?”

“It's him, sir.”

“Who is?”

“He's Colqhoun, sir.”

“Colonel Ives is... ?”

“He's the one that... that killed them all, sir.”

“Are you mad?”

Yes, possibly. In that moment, John was feeling far from collected knowing the mad cannibal was just outside and able to attack everyone should he feel the urge to do so.

Remembering Major Knox had been around them at the time of Colqhoun’s arrival back then, John suggested with a shaking voice, “Have Major Knox look at him. Sir, Major Knox was here.”

“Major Knox.”

“Have Major Knox look at him, sir,” John insisted.

Obliging, Slauson had the Major step into the office to have a look at the Colonel from afar.

“He doesn't look familiar to me, sir. I do remember the man wore a beard. But, as I was saying, sir... I was feeling a bit ill that day.”

“You were drunk,” John clarified, because that was the sad truth and knowing this, he understood what a poor and unreliable witness the Major was.

“Captain, please,” the General dismissed his comment.

“Boyd, you say you fired on this Colqhoun... struck him in the shoulder. Well, that would leave a wound, now, wouldn't it, General?” the Major suddenly pointed out. Lindus entered the room and continued to the door separating another room. He was carrying a box of items that belonged to Colqhoun... or Colonel Ives, because he must have been the perpetrator all along and Colqhoun probably had never existed.

“I presume so,” Slauson agreed.

“Well, why don't we check, hmm?” Knox asked and looked at the door to the courtyard where Ives stepped in with the rest of his equipment.

John fled back in a safe distance when Ives stepped into the room. 

“Colonel Ives.”

“General.”

“Would you humour me a moment?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Would you... Would you take off your shirt, please... and show me your shoulder. Please, Colonel?”

Ives looked at them to establish if they were joking, but he soon gathered that that was not the case and accepted, handing Knox his burden. “Well, I, uh... My last physical examination was not that long ago. Surely, Major Knox has no desire to hear me cough.” Calmly he took off his belt and sash. Both of which he also handed to the Major.

Then he slowly unbuttoned his coat. His eyes fell on John’s, and the Captain’s head was spinning from the chemistry that was building up between them, whether he wanted it to or not. 

Lindus reached out to take his coat when it was unbuttoned. Then Ives loosened his cravat, linen shirt, and finally bared his right shoulder. Ives’ skin was smooth as a baby’s. John knew it wasn’t the correct shoulder, and the General remembered how John had insisted on hitting the Wendigo on his left side, and asked him to bare the other shoulder as well.

As John stared almost hypnotised, a range of emotions coiled in his core fearing so hotly that the wound wouldn’t be there. When Ives then boldly pulled the other side of his shirt down, John was stunned in disbelief. No scar.

“Thank you, Colonel,” Slauson said quietly.

Ives’ eyes drifted to John, and John gritted his teeth by the sheer injustice of the display in front of him.

“Not at all,” Ives said after a few moments, his voice smooth as silk. A voice calm and collected, a voice so worthy of a real gentleman had he been one to begin with. John remembered Colqhoun’s mad staring eyes, how frightening they had been to regard. Colonel Ives’ eyes were a soft brown. Like a golden coffee wafting its intoxicating scent at its prey and luring it closer. John wasn’t sure he was strong enough to resist if Ives really decided to go after him. 

His mouth watered as he imagined what Ives’ smooth skin tasted like... honey, cinnamon... John hitched desperately for breath when he’d forgotten to inhale for too long. The smallest hint of a smile was visible in the corner of Ives’ mouth, and John knew he was the only one who could see it.

Taunt. Pure and evil taunt. 

“Is there a problem?” Ives asked, as he got dressed.

“Not with you, Colonel,” the General said.

“General, we should leave now in order to avoid the storm,” Lindus said. The General didn’t respond but left Ives’ quarters.

John hastened outside, with Ives calmly joining the gathered people in the courtyard. Major Lindus put a cape over the General’s shoulders, as they prepared to leave the fort. This was serious, and John was all over him beseeching the General to believe his horrific encounter of what had happened under Colqhoun’s visit.

Tired of the Captain’s incessant nonsense, he interrupted John, “Some military career! _Two_ massacres. One survivor! You are not a soldier; you’re a coward, Boyd. Now, I can be certain about that. You deserted a unit up the mountains, but I suspected you did.”

“That’s _not_ what happened! Listen to me!” John begged. Keeping an eye on Ives watching from afar expecting him to attack any second, Boyd frantically tried to articulate his warnings, but all he managed was sounding as deranged and delusional as General Slauson thought he was.   
“Listen to me, General!” John pleaded and even grabbed the front of the General’s uniform to make him listen. Realising the second he did it, he released the man again with more garbling words.

“The asylum ward... Boyd?” Slauson asked, “Is that what you want, because I will take you there right now.”

Finally, John realised what the General was trying to convey. He looked at his remaining but utterly clueless friends: Cleaves, Martha, and Major Knox. No, he couldn’t leave them behind in the devil incarnate Ives’ care.

“No, sir, I’ll stay.”

Ives decided to join them, but only succeeded in John moving back to stay closer to the main building.

Apologetically, the General said to Ives, “Colonel, I’m not very comfortable with Captain Boyd’s state of mind. He’s delusional I’m certain, and possibly dangerous. Especially toward you, Colonel. He seems to think that you murdered his outfit.” Both Ives and Slauson cast a look at the twitching Captain, who was still standing at a safe distance, watching them with all senses alert.

“I see,” Ives responded.

“But if you’d like, I will remove him from your command,” Slauson suggested. 

“No-no, sir. I’d leave him here,” Ives said pleasantly and smiled at the General.

“You’re certain?” Slauson asked genuinely worried.

“Well, if Captain Boyd is delusional particularly concerning myself, I think the best cure for him will be to let him remain.” Both officers assessed John once more, “...for his own sake. I’d let him stay.”

“Very well,” Slauson said, calmed by Ives’ mature handling of the spooked and fragile Captain. “He’s your charge. But please keep a wary eye on him.”

“I will, sir,” Ives promised and they shook hands.

“Goodbye Colonel and good luck,” Slauson said and proceeded to mount his horse. With a sigh he saw John come up close again. 

John hadn’t lost hope that he would be able to warn the General and tried one last time to appeal to the man. The General just looked at him with a fatherly expression and said pitifully, “Captain? Get some rest.”

Defeated, John stepped back and watched Slauson and his unit leave.

Knox approached Ives. “Colonel Ives,” he drawled. “Key to the arsenal.” Then he handed the Colonel said key. “It’s the only lock on Ford Spencer, sir! We take great pride in that.”

John’s eyes slid to Ives’ face, but the man just looked serenely back at him. Hadn’t John known better he could have been fooled like the rest of them that Ives was harmless. 

Ives went back to unpack and John headed for the main building. Cleaves and Martha were there talking about him. 

“Boyd told the general Colonel Ives killed everyone,” Cleaves told Martha.

“What?”

“He said Colonel Ives was the man responsible. Boyd gone loco. I think he's the reason nobody came back.” Cleaves hadn’t noticed John until Martha shot a significant look toward the door.

John didn’t mind the talking and came nearer. “I have to warn you.”

“Yeah, Captain?” Cleaves responded uneasy.

“Consider yourselves warned,” was all John had to add; he couldn’t blame them for tiptoeing around him now. Then he eyed a big butcher knife on the table where Cleaves was preparing a flank of ribs.

“Do you need this?” he asked the cook.

“No, sir,” Cleaves said hesitantly.

“Oh, good.” John took it with him to his quarter.

*~.:.~*

“You're not an eater of ribs, Colonel Ives?” Major Knox asked the newcomer at dinner that evening.

John hadn’t bothered to dress properly for the occasion. He showed up at the table, but only to keep an eye on the Colonel non-stop.

“No, no, Major. I, uh... can never forget it used to be an animal.”

“Sentimental fellow.”

“What about you, Captain Boyd? You don't eat meat?” Ives then asked John taking a smoke of his cigar. 

“Oh, no, he won't,” Cleaves scoffed.

“Only as a last resort,” John said.

“That's a pity.”

The next day John spent the time by himself staring out of the window. Cleaves was goofing around with the antlers of a huge deer. John’s mind slipped away into a violent fantasy where he stepped outside and attacked Cleaves with the knife he’d procured. He would then eat his bloody flesh straight from the wound before the poor man had even taken his last breath. Luckily, it was just a private fantasy but John was grossed out by his thoughts just the same.

That evening in the main room, John’s eyes began to droop. He’d been on his toes all day, spent so much energy in keeping an eye on Ives that he was close to sleeping on his feet. But he couldn’t afford to fall asleep. If he did, Ives would start killing these people who would not see him for the cannibal that he was. Ives was reading in a chair in the opposite end of John. Cleaves and Knox played chess and Martha honed sticks she would use as arrows. John was watching everyone, and they were all watching back – except Ives, but then he had no reason to.

All of a sudden, Ives slapped closed his book, and John who had nodded off jumped out of his chair like the rest of them. It would seem, everybody was tightly wound up from the tension between John and Ives; pointing any kind of weapon at the other, assessing the situation for any danger. Obviously, there wasn’t any and Ives smiled unimpressed.

“Huh. Well, well... It appears a number of us could use some rest.”

Keeping on pushing himself, John went to sit outside the main building in the night. It was bitterly cold and he thought it might help him to stay awake. Ives came out one time to have a smoke. Cleaves came too, only to shake his head at John. John knew nobody was thanking him for this. They couldn't understand his motives any longer, but John wasn’t giving up on them even if they’d given up on him.

“Go on to bed, Boyd,” Cleaves said as he passed him on his way to bed.

Witnessing the exchange, Ives didn’t say anything but passed John. Immediately, John got up and followed with his knife drawn. He heard a creaking noise coming from the stable and he was about to go there when Ives’ voice sounded from his right side. 

“Clearing up, I found your Private Reich out there... or what was left of him. You didn't finish. Well, I can't blame you. He was tough. But then... a good soldier ought to be.”

The words themselves were ordinary, but John knew the underlining message between the lines. So they were having _that_ conversation now. Well, fine.

Ives took a long deep breath. “You know, not that long ago, I couldn't do that. Could barely take a breath without coughing up a pint of blood.” He neared John and the Captain let him. As of now, he was pretty sure that if Ives wanted to kill someone, John wouldn’t be his first priority. “Tuberculosis,” Ives continued, “That, along with fierce headaches, depression, suicidal ambition. I was in pretty horrible shape. In fact, I was on my way to a sanatorium to convalesce... more likely to die, when en route, this Indian scout told me a curious story. A man eats the flesh of another. He steals his strength and absorbs the other man's spirit. Well, I just had to try. Consequently, I ate the scout first and, you know, he was absolutely right. I grew stronger. Later, through circumstance my wagon train grew lost in the Rockies.”

John held the knife secured in his hand as he watched Ives’ steps with sharp eyes. “I've heard this story before,” John reminded him.

“Mmm... I ate five men in three months. Tuberculosis? Vanished... as did the black thoughts. I reached Denver that spring feeling happy. And healthy. And virile,” Ives said, and his eyes turned sly the way John remembered them. The tension between them was building up again. Like it had all day, and like it had in the main building that evening. John could smell the arousal on Ives and he felt it on himself. It was the talk about blood. It was creeping inside his head again like a drug he had to have or he’d burst with madness.

“Did you eat her, too?” John gritted through his teeth referring to Mrs. MacCready.

“Well, as a matter of fact...” Ives said and nursed a rhetorical pause.

“You're disgusting,” John fired at him, but Ives was also deliciously attractive and John didn’t know which characteristics he found more appealing.

Ives broke out in laughter from hearing John saying that. He couldn’t have cared less what John thought of his cannibalistic tendencies. He wasn’t above ingesting any kind of human being. “Here I am, one year later feeling more alive than ever before. And that's what surprises me about you, Boyd. You've tasted it... felt its power. Yet, you're resisting. Why?”

“Because it's wrong.” Needing to taste another man was wrong. It mattered not if he liked it – the fact remained that people were not allowed to wanting it or society would collapse. John wasn’t a fool, he knew about the baser desires involved here, but where John had eaten Reich out of hunger, Ives took advantage of it and killed for the pleasure of it. 

“Ah! Morality... the last bastion of a coward. Well, I'm sorry. Did I offend you?” Ives stepped up so close he was invading John’s personal space and that was the trigger. John attacked with the knife, and frightening fast Ives grabbed for the blade and cut his own palm. John didn’t expect that to happen, and stood watching Ives calmly inspecting the wound. Then the Colonel turned his hand and showed the slash to John.

Softly, Ives asked, “Do you remember this?” Automatically, John inhaled, because he couldn’t not do it. He saw how the moonlight reflected in the fresh cut, and it was impossible to look away. The revulsion he felt was as strong as his sex drive.

“You smell it?” Oh, yes he could. It was overwhelmingly sweet and John’s cock began stirring because he wanted it so much.

“Scent always jogs the memory, don't you think?” Ives tempted, “You remember the energy... the potency of someone else coursing through your veins. You know the disappointment as it dissipates, the strength slipping from your grasp. The growing, killing need to replenish.” 

His hand came closer to John’s face, and John breathed labouredly out of his nose, as he fought not to stick out this tongue and lick. His eyes were fixed on the drops of blood that had begun to gather at the edge of Ives’ hand. 

“Ooh,” John grunted and was about to reach out when Ives pulled away. 

“But I don't have to remind you of that. You're feeling it right now," Ives mocked him.

“I am going to kill you,” John shouted, not knowing if it was because he was cheated of his prize, or because he hated Ives more than he could take. He came after the man and pushed him to the ground, the knife was put against the Colonel’s throat faster than Boyd thought even he would have been able to.

But he didn't get the chance to execute the deed because Martha came up behind him and pressed a knife against John’s throat.

“He die, you die.”

“What the heck is going on out here?” Knox called out, coming from the main building to see what the ruckus was all about.

“I was on my way to the latrine. Boyd attacked me,” Ives explained.

“He's a liar! He's lying!” John shouted angrily and march-limped back to the house where he sat down and scowled trembling with rage and resentment. 

“Boyd, I'm putting you under arrest!” Knox called out after him, “and Martha, go wake up Cleaves. Put Boyd under arrest.”

Martha went outside searching for the cook and Knox busied himself cleaning up Ives’ wound. Then shortly after, Martha yelled out in alarm and knocked frantically on the window to get Knox’ attention, “Major Knox! All the horses... dead!”

As she stood there looking in, big splashes of blood began dripping on her face. The horrific image had Knox run outside to locate Martha. Looking up, the two of them found poor Cleaves dead, put on display on the edge of the roof. His turn had come. Knox’ reaction was to go back into the main building to find John and head butted him with a vengeance. 

“Oooh!” John cried out unprepared for the attack and fell stunned to the floor.

“That was for Cleaves... and this is for my horse,” Knox said and punched John in the face. Bleeding from his lip and nose, John succumbed to the fate of being the outcast. All fingers were now pointing at him instead of Ives.

Clever bastard.

*~.:.~*


	4. Chapter 4

*~.:.~*

With the fort lacking personnel, Martha became the one who had to go to San Miguel and get General Slauson. John was to be put in military prison as soon as possible. Until that was possible, John was put in chains and kept in his room across from the main building.

His first visitor was Ives who came in, closed the door, and secured the fastener to prevent the others from entering. With dread, John knew this was not a good idea. When the Colonel slapped him across the face, John’s lip wound gushed with blood spraying all over Ives’ fingers. John still felt like a caged animal, not knowing whether to come or go when Ives was near him. His nemesis squatted in front of him, and the Captain watched with dilated pupils as Ives slowly let his fingers travel under his nostrils. Ives sniffed with undisguised pleasure the scent of John’s blood before he stuck two fingers in his mouth, and with a long drawn sexual moan sucked them clean. 

“My god, you are sooo delicious,” Ives whispered and fixed John’s eyes with his own when he was done licking. 

“Come here,” he told John who did the opposite and crawled as far back as he could. However, the furthest place he could go was the bunk behind him. His chains restricted him from effectively avoiding Ives. John huddled on his bed and awaited Ives’ next move.

“How befitting that you’re chained... John...” Ives said and took off his coat. Then he proceeded to open his pants and continued undressing the rest of his gear, until he was as naked as John remembered him from the night they revived him a month ago.

John swallowed and felt how Ives’ musky scent tickled his nose. The Scot came up close and John closed his eyes when the Colonel’s hard penis entered his mouth.

“Uh, yes, that’s more like it,” Ives sighed and ran his fingers gently through John’s matted hair. John hummed, sucked, and licked the smooth organ that rested so heavily on his tongue. He moaned and put his chained hands on Ives’ hips. His fingers felt the goose bumps on well shaped buttocks and sucked harder. 

Kneading John’s hair, Ives pulled out and pressed John’s face against his front, his hard cock pressing into John’s cheek.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asked.

John turned his head and with a needy moan, he sucked the organ back into his mouth.

“So warm. So scorching. You are exquisite,” Ives cooed softly, “I knew you’d be, Boyd.” Then he slipped out once more and lifted the light blue sweater John wore over his head. Because of the hand cuffs, the garment would just have to pool by the end of the chains. Systematically, the rest of John’s clothes came off, and Ives held John’s head in his hands.

“Will you let me take you?”

John cocked his head and said like an after thought, “You are the one in the position to take what you want. I’m not stopping you.”

“I wish you’d try,” Ives said.

Intoxicated by desire, John grinned, and his lip bled again. Ives was on him so fast John fell on his back on the bunk. Leaning up, he licked across John’s bleeding lip and he moaned obscenely again.

Like Reich, the Colonel had brought along some cooking oil to ease the path. At least he didn’t force his way in without preparing John. Knowing how good this was going to feel, John spread his legs willingly to give the Colonel some workspace.

“You like this?” Ives asked as he pushed his fingers inside, one at the time. 

“Yes, I do,” John said and held on to the furs under him. Ives ran a hand over John’s bandaged healing shin bone and down to his feet, tickling the hairs as he reversed the caress. “Huuuuh,” John breathed rapidly. His eyes were closed. He honestly didn’t care what happened to him. As long as Ives was busy taking his pleasure from him, Knox would be safe. “Do me,” he encouraged him.

Ives slipped in right away.

“Fuck me, Ives,” John said through gritted teeth. “Take me and make all this over with.”

“How so?” Ives asked and licked John’s mouth and nose, hunting down the traces of blood he could find with his tongue.

“It’s me you want, isn’t it?”

“Of course, Captain. I’ve wanted _you_ from the moment I saw you.”

“You can have me,” John offered.

“I already have,” Ives chuckled.

“No. You don’t understand. You must spare... spare the others.”

Silencing John with a kiss, Ives rocked his hips before burying himself inside his body, stayed there, dragging out their intercourse. For a while, John lost himself to passion, as their bodies moved as old lovers in a seamless carnal motion of sweaty limbs belying the illusion, since they’d never been together this way before.

“Alas, I was not your first,” Ives stated, after he’d deposited his seed. He was drying his sweaty arms and cast John a curious look. “That only makes me want you more. Knowing you’re desirable to others. But I want you for myself.”

“You can have me,” John said again.

Ives chuckled quietly, “Yes. I know, and I will, John. Just won’t stop me from seeking out other prey.”

John looked away. He was tired and just wanted to enjoy the energy that was coursing through him. That lasted barely a minute, when Ives turned him on his stomach and took his pleasure again, rougher, and with his arm around John’s throat until he passed out. 

John was roused to the characteristic sounds of a knife chopping. Shocked, he sat up. He was dressed. Ives must have done that while he was unconscious. His door was open and so was the door to the mess room across from him. Ives could keep an eye on him that way.

Chop-chop. It sounded like vegetables. There were no other sounds and Knox never cooked.

“Knox? Major Knox! Major Knox! Knox! Talk to me. I'd like to know you're still alive!” John persisted on crying out until he knew what was going on.

“Be quiet, Boyd,” the man said showing himself in the door opening. 

“Good gracious,” John sighed. He was still there.

As usual, Knox was carrying a bottle of liquor in one hand and a glass in the other. John watched him approach Ives.

“Colonel Ives. My sword is missing,” he informed his commanding officer.

“I'm sorry, Major?”

“My sword... in the parlour, above the fire.”

“I haven't seen it.”

And that was that. Knox sat down heavily on a chair by the fire. “What are you cooking?” he asked.

“It's, uh... stew.”

“You need any help?”

“No, no, though... perhaps later, you might... contribute,” Ives said smiling pleasantly.

“You let me know.”

John understood the innuendo only too well. He was sitting on the floor at the end of the bed and called out again, “Ives. Ives!” 

“Yes... Captain?”

“When did you do it, Ives?”

“Do what, Captain?”

“Kill Cleaves and the horses. I was watching you the whole time.”

“You be quiet about Cleaves and the horses, Boyd! You hear me? Or I will put you out again,” Knox shouted agitated as he walked toward John’s quarters. Then he closed the door and John’s view to the parlour was blocked. A sudden commotion occurred as Knox went back to the parlour.

“Good gracious,” was the last thing John heard him say before the sound of a body hitting the floor immediately worried him.

*~.:.~*

Still sitting on the floor with all senses alert, John listened for signs to what went on in the other building. “Knox! Knox??” he cried out fearing the worst had already happened. Steps were heard outside his door and John coiled, preparing his body to protect itself against the unknown. The door slowly opened and Colonel Hart stood there. Alive and in a very good shape. His face was covered in blood and John was at a loss for words.

“Hello, Boyd. I hated doing that,” he said.

“Unh,” John garbled and watched Ives drag poor Knox away.

“I told you my regimen had certain curative powers, Boyd,” Ives said. Then he nodded at John and told Hart, “Get him up and around.”

The Colonel put his arms under John’s and got him up on the bed.

All John could do was grunt. “Oh... oh!”

“Leg still hurt?” Hart asked as he sat down on the chest across from John’s bed. “Doesn't have to, you know.”

John realised that Hart was in on it. He realised many things. The man had turned to cannibalism and, by the relaxed way the two colonels acted around each other, it had never been Ives’ plan to kill Hart. 

“ _You_ killed Cleaves... and the horses,” John accused Hart, “What happened to you?”

Hart came over and squatted in front of John and began freeing the chain from the wall. “I thought I was dead. I remember feeling panic as my life slipped away. It was like drowning in darkness... and then... there was nothing. And then I woke up... and Ives was feeding me. By the time I regained my senses, there was no turning back. I feel terrific.”

“So, you're going to kill me?” John asked.

“No. No. It's lonely being a cannibal. Tough making friends. No, I like you, Boyd. We, uh, want to bring you into the fold. You got to eat.”

Hart put a blanket around him and took him across the yard where Ives was busy butchering the Major.

“Finished?” Hart asked eagerly.

“I'm afraid Major Knox's penchant for bourbon... didn't leave him in the pink,” Ives said, “You take over.”

Ives went to take a view over the horizon. And John came to stand next to him.

“Manifest... destiny. Westward expansion. You know, come April it'll all start again. Thousands of gold-hungry Americans will travel over those mountains... on their way to new lives... passing right... through... here.” Ives framed the fort gates with his hands. “We won't kill... indiscriminately. No... selectively. Good God... we don't want to break up families.”

“People are not stupid, Ives,” John said.

“Really?”

“You'll get caught.”

“Well, if it's just the two of us... jolly old Hart and I. You see, that's why we need others. You, for one.”

“I’m aware of that by now,” John said. He could still feel it from the last time Ives took him.

“General Slauson...”

Now that was a surprise.

“Of course, we've no wish to recruit everyone. We've enough mouths to feed, as it is. We just need a home. And this country is seeking to be whole. Stretching out its arms... and consuming all it can. And we merely follow.”

“Not me,” John said quietly.

“You know, it's not courage to resist me, Boyd. It's courage to accept me. I mean, you're already one of us. Well... almost. You hunger for it. You just won't resign yourself to it. It's not so difficult, really... acquiescence. It's easy, actually. You just give in.”

“I can't.”

“Oh, well. Then...” Ives said regrettably and buried a knife in John’s stomach, “you die.”

Shocked, John felt the pain in his gut. 

“It's all right, it's not fatal,” Ives said as if it was nothing, “Not if you take the necessary precautions.”

Ives helped John inside and placed him on the worn-out divan in the main building.

The food was ready and Hart poured a bowl for John and put it on the small table in front of him. Otherwise, they ignored his physical state.

“Stew á la Major Knox. This will fix you up. The old souse was a lot stronger than he looked. A couple of doses of this... you'll be right as rain and twice as strong,” Colonel Hart said.

John just looked at it. He was not going to touch it.

“Well... Isn't this civilized?” Hart said.

“Mmm. You know... Ben Franklin once said... ‘Eat to live... don't live to eat.’ Well, it's an easy decision, Boyd. You can either famine or feast. Live or die.”

John coughed up blood and felt fainter than he had a minute ago. He knew that if he died, Ives and Hart would simply eat him. Knowing that this could be his ending on earth was unbearable, and his struggles to get through life would have been in vain. Yet, turning into what they had become, was an even worse design.

The two officers watched him with hawk like eyes, waiting for him to make a decision.

Blood kept pouring out of his stomach wound, and John wondered how much longer he had left before his heart gave up. He was lightheaded from the blood loss, from the fumes of meat in front of him, and in so much pain that in the end there was only one variable. Pure instinct finally took over and leaning forward, John grabbed a spoon and began eating like the deranged animal he was in that moment. The shackles still attached to his wrists were heavy and made it difficult to control his movements, but he couldn’t resist any more. His body was thrumming in anticipation for when the kick was setting in. The moral dilemma of wanting this dissipated as long as human flesh filled his empty stomach.

“Bravo,” Ives whispered satisfied. He’d accomplished his goal. “Isn’t he precious?” he asked inhaling sharply, as if he could smell John from across the room. 

Hart looked approvingly at the Captain. “Yes, he is. All yours, though,” he said and winked.

“All mine. He’s all mine,” Ives agreed, and John felt strangely detached from the fact that they were discussing him in third person.

Like an object.

Like he wasn’t even in the room. 

Like his father used to address him.

*~.:.~*

The next morning, Hart was outside feeding the chickens. He and Ives were preparing for when Slauson would show up. John could follow their activities from his window.

Ives hadn’t come by visiting him during the night for his release. John suspected it was only because he was given the time needed to heal that he’d been left alone. They didn’t completely trust him yet, so he was once more chained to the wall.

While Ives went to the hayloft to look out for Slauson, Hart came to John’s quarters carrying more stew. 

“Well, you're up. Feeling better? You look very well, Boyd.”

John had noticed. He could tell in the mirror. After a good clean up, his face looked unharmed again. The stomach wound was healing fast to the point, where he didn't feel more pain and the bleeding had stopped. The broken bone was still bothering him, but the discomfort was considerably diminished. 

"Waste not, want not,” Hart quoted Ben Franklin. “How's the wound?”

“Oh, right as rain,” John said, repeating Hart from the day before.

Hart lifted John’s sweater to see for himself. “Yeah. So it is.”

“I could use some fresh air.”

Hart took a good look at him before he asked, “Are you to be trusted?”

John turned his head to him and said, “Of course not.”

Nevertheless, Hart decided to unchain John from the wall and took him to the office. Today the shackles felt weightless, but John didn’t mention that to the Colonel.

“Walnut, Boyd?” Hart offered him when he found his stash still in the top drawer of his desk. This time he didn’t need a book to break the hard shell. He used his fist. Then he lamented, “All my books are gone. I'll miss them. Plato, Aristotle.” 

John hadn’t known the books had been removed since Hart was gone.

The Colonel let the crushed shells fall to the wooden surface and instead he pulled forth a stiletto sized knife from the drawer. “For two millennia, struggling with the nature of man, the ideal society, morality. Boil it down it's the same issues we can't solve today: happiness and how to achieve it.”

“Aristotle sought truth, Colonel, not happiness,” John said.

“Truth? Ha! I led my whole life according to what I thought was right and true, and look where it got me... Fort Spencer.”

There was a change in the colonel and John decided he had to try and make the man come to his senses. Ives would never turn back, but the Colonel was still new at this.

“Come on, General. You have to let me go now, sir.”

“You know I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“We are not alone. There's nowhere to go.”

“I'm still having nightmares,” John said appealing to his humanity.

“Oh, no, no.”

“Reich, Cleaves, Toffler,” John counted their fallen friends.

“No! I don't want to hear this! There's no turning back now!”

“I know that, sir.”

“Don't you understand? All you have to do is kill! You have to kill to live! You have to kill!” The Colonel stuck the knife into the desk during his frustrated speech that didn’t even sound convincing to the Captain. John couldn’t miss the opportunity, hurried forward, and pulled out the knife. The Colonel didn’t even move when John circled him and slit his throat.

Looking at John with childlike wonder, the Colonel sank to his knees and dropped to the side. John quickly found the key in his pocket and freed his hands from the damned shackles. Now he just had to figure out how to get rid of Ives. He remembered what Martha said, and knew there was only one way he could free the world from the likes of Ives... and himself.

When he saw Ives climbing down the ladder from the hayloft, John knew he had very little time left. Slauson must be on his way. Ives came to the window and saw Hart lying on the floor bleeding to death. John looked him in the eye as he stood there and calmly took in everything. They were finally down to just the two of them.

John dropped the knife and pulled out Knox’s sword that Hart had previously stolen. Ives came in moments later. Immediately, John attacked Ives who didn’t have a weapon, but the man manoeuvred excellently and managed to escape the room, and John followed, so ready to finish this.

Stepping outside, John looked around the yard, scanning the area for where the Colonel could possibly have hidden. He ran to the mess room, but he wasn't there. Ives’ image showed itself to his inner eye, a bloody cross painted on his forehead. A sign that assured John that the man was still within the Fort.

“Ives!?” John called out. It felt incredible to be the hunter for a change. Ives wasn’t in any of the rooms John searched, but his image kept showing, agitating John even more to find him.

Suddenly the mess bell rang outside, and John stepped out in the yard. The bell was next to the barn... the last place John hadn’t searched for Ives. Quickly he went there, so Slauson wouldn’t show up and prevent him from doing what he had to. At first, John couldn’t see Ives, but the man was a chameleon, so it was no wonder. Then John saw it. A big rusty bear trap that would snap with a vengeance should its prey walk into its gaping mouth. That was it. That was John’s plan served on a platter.

John left the barn and went outside again. Closing in on a small barrel fire under a half roof, John stopped. Ives still didn't show, but then his telltale demonic laughter made its presence in John’s head. Nanoseconds after, the man burst through the half roof and attacked John as the Captain charged forward. Immediately, they made contact. John with the sword and Ives with a heavy board. John took some serious beating and lost the sword before he regained his momentum. Eying a two-pronged fork, he grabbed it while Ives went for Hart’s knife which had found its way into the back of his pants.

John was on his feet again, ready for the next clash, however he was ahead of Ives and forcefully plunged his nasty weapon into Ives’ gut. The Scot grunted in pain and John was filled with an animalistic satisfaction from hurting him. Pushing Ives backwards with the embedded fork, John had him up against the wall and pulled out the fork to repeat the motion.

Ives stopped the blow and grabbed the stick as it came for him. John put all his strength into forcing the weapon back to hit Ives anywhere, but the man was so strong and didn’t relent for a second. The turning point came shortly after when Ives twisted his body. With his right hand he got to John, and sunk the knife into his stomach in three quick jabs. It hurt beyond hellish but knowing he had a purpose to fulfil, John just had to carry on.

Holding Ives at bay with the fork, John butted him twice in the head. Ives returned the favour powerfully, and John fell backwards and landed on the ground.

Both of them took a breather that lasted only moments before it was on again. John had landed next to a small firewood chopping block, and the small cleaver was still implanted on the edge. Shakily, he ripped it out. His left arm cradled his wound, as he staggering got back on his feet and faced Ives.

Ives was now in charge of the fork and knife and they eyed each other for the best opportunity to attack the other, each fighting for what they believed in.

John struck first, and gave Ives a serious cut in the left arm, the one the Colonel held the spear in. Ives dropped the fork, growling in pain. John wasn’t thinking logically any longer and found a birch log on the ground and picked it up. Triumphantly, he struck Ives square in the face with its butted end and Ives fell down. John continued to hit him savagely with the log and Ives had no other choice but to take it.

The thrill of seeing Ives as the underdog just for a few moments was exhilarating, and John dropped the log and went straight for Ives. He sat down heavily on the man and held down the hand in which Ives was still clutching the knife. With the other, John tried to strangle him. Ives fought with everything he had and managed to turn them around. John grabbed with both hands for Ives’ neck, and kept the knife at bay for a while until Ives stuck the knife into John’s back. The added pain John was experiencing as the new wound was inflicted was so serious he feared he was going to pass out. He had to hurry if he was going to succeed in finishing Ives in time. 

With the knife sticking out of his back, he reached behind him and struck out wildly, hitting Ives in the face. Ives didn’t respond but sat watching John crawling away. As John passed the corner pole supporting the roof, he stumbled into it and the whole construction crashed down with Ives still under it. Well, at least it gave John a few moments to reach the barn before Ives got out of there.

What Ives found when he opened the door to the barn was John sitting down, waiting for him, staring at him with that indefinable expression in his eyes. The one that always made him hungry for him.

In spite of the death combat they were in the middle of, what Ives really wanted to do in that moment was ripping John’s clothes off. Then he’d fuck him and lick off all the delicious fluids that wouldn’t stop oozing out of his delectable lithe body. Ives got hard in merely moments just thinking about it and being surrounded by John’s sweet smelling blood. 

Filled with desire, he neared the Captain and when he got to him, he grabbed John by the arms and pulled him to stand. He didn’t think about the strange fact that John wasn’t fighting him now. All he saw was the incredible way the sun caught his blue eyes. How beautiful he was with his face smeared in blood. How his lips would taste when he had him under him. Ives reached behind John and pulled the knife out of his back.

John didn’t say a word indicating how much that hurt. He stared up in the hole on the roof, saw the sun, and then he met Ives’ gaze. 

Grabbing John again, Ives dropped the knife on the ground. The apathy he found in John’s eyes was alluring; his hands were shaking as he zoomed in on John’s face. 

John took hold of Ives’ midsection and steered him backwards further inside the barn. Ives wasn’t suspecting anything; John hadn’t expected him to and dropped him on the hay strewn floor. John fell on top of Ives and grabbed the Colonel’s head and pressed it against the brick he’d put in the centre of the trap and the mechanism was activated. With a horrible snap, the trap caught the both of them between its long teeth.

John screamed in pain as did Ives. 

Gasping as blood appeared from his mouth, Ives chuckled with a grimace, “That was... really... sneaky.” 

Sensing how his lungs must have been perforated, John's breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. His other wounds were bleeding freely and the feeling was as arousing as the way Ives’ body also felt - if the hard on pressing into John’s own was any indication. John’s free hand wrapped gently around Ives’ jaw and he looked at him in wonder. He did it. He actually managed to do it.

“You know...” Ives said with much difficulty, “if you die first... I am definitely going to eat you.”

Well, John couldn’t really blame the man.

“The question is... if I die... what are you going to do?” Ives asked.

John hadn’t thought about it. The plan had never involved John surviving this. He squeezed his eyes shut processing that. His eyes flew open again when he heard horses approaching. The General must have arrived. The sun had passed the hole in the roof. Knowing he’d seen it one last time was comforting. 

“Bon appétit. Eat... or die...” Ives said and exhaled for the last time.

John looked at him for as long as he could keep his head up. The connection of his wounds to Ives' still left John with a tingling sensation. The man was dead. For real. So it shouldn’t matter anymore. Soon, John would feel nothing. 

Exhausted he let go of Ives’ jaw. John put his head on Ives’ chest and closed his eyes. He was ready.

*~.:.~*

The next time John awoke he was back in the main room. Martha was tending his wounds. John didn’t understand why he wasn’t dead.

“You survived. Ives did not,” Martha said. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when there was time.”

“Martha...” John said, “Knox...”

“He’s gone.”

“The stew. Don’t eat it...”

Martha froze.

*~.:.~*

Slauson came to pay him a visit at his sick bed to ask John about what happened. That was John’s third time surviving a massacre. The General finally accepted that Colonel Ives had been the main cause of the sinister mayhem at Ford Spencer.

The man who honed and groomed John so many weeks ago was now truly gone and buried. John had personally severed his neck when no one had any cause to look into the casket anymore.

In spite of what Ives had done to John, he did it with a sting of regret. The young Captain was in no doubt that had he chosen to take the leap when Ives offered him the world's Oyster, what a horrific journey of carnage thrills that would have been. But his conscience had been stronger and he thought of all the innocent lives who would have pointlessly been sacrificed from his and Ives' dubious greedy thirst; a thirst that would only grow and never be slaked.

No – John may have been the coward before but he sacrificed his life to stop Ives. Whatever saved him when the General came by and found the pair in the barn, John had a vague idea. Perhaps the blood from Ives’ that seeped into John's wound from their connecting point. That’s what he explained to himself and vividly felt as he lay there on top of the Colonel. The overall question for the third party’s point of view he left to others.

In truth, how could anyone have survived being caught in a bear trap? The force of the mechanism when the trap collapsed should have snapped John’s spine in two. John didn't know if it had – and if it did, he had no permanent injuries from it. His bones were almost intact, his wounds healed satisfactorily, and Slauson had more unanswered questions for him. "What happened and why are you the only survivor _again?_ "

John decided to try another tactic. "Ives – your precious Colonels Ives and Hart took pleasure in killing and eating people crossing this fort. I wouldn't be surprised if Major Knox was in the stew in the stove in the mess room, sir. He went missing while I was conveniently tied up. Hopefully, you didn't eat any of it. Trust me – one helping will turn you away from your beloved bison steaks."

The General was about to fire off some choice words at John when something must have set off an instinctive warning he shouldn't dismiss.

John saw his apprehension right away, “Ah – you did eat some of it and already feel the influence,” he said.

Slauson didn't answer. He’d had enough of the challenge that seemed to follow the young Captain. "Let's just say I believe you," he said lowly, "But even you can understand that under no circumstances can I report this."

"With respect, of course you can report it, sir. The Colonel was dangerous and insane in his misplaced desire to kill and maim his fellow soldiers with the intent to devour their flesh," John said. "...And then he was successfully forced from his position and died later from his wounds."

"How eloquent you suddenly are," Slauson said. 

"My fears are over, and I survived the ordeal. All of them."

"John - Captain... though you have your heart the right place – I can see that now, I just don't think you belong in the army.”

John couldn’t agree more. Mentally as well as physically he’d never had the back bone to become a soldier. And due to the injuries he’d sustained, the army wasn’t interested in employing him anymore. 

“I am going to give you an honorary discharge. You need to recover from all of this. I doubt your lucky star will continue to protect you, and you are not fit for warfare." 

John took what the General offered without further comments and hoped that would be the last time he ever saw the man again.

 

End of Part 0ne.

*~.:.~*


End file.
